Disclaimer – This fanfiction was not written by me; it belongs to the user William Dellinger on alternatehistory, by publishing it here I only intend to bring it to a wider audience and make it available for offline reading. I do not claim any ownership of the content.

Jenny IV
11; 275 AC
King's Landing

Jenny smiled as Rhaegar threw the saddlebag over his horse, securing it in place with the straps from his saddle. It was good to see him moving so quickly with purpose, even if it were to leave her for a pair of months. There was a general excitement in the air; Rhaegar was glad to get out of the walls of King's Landing and see something other than the fetid, cloistering presence of the city and its half a million inhabitants. Jenny missed her time on the road as well, a new place and new people every day. She loved staying in King's Landing, but only because Rhaegar was there and the promise of their life together. It would be good for him to get away for some time; once the plot was done and the king was dead, there would be no time to travel, not until they snuck away to Essos and found their tiny village.

Rhaegar smiled at her when he caught her looking, bending down to pick up a travel sack of food and water; Jenny had packed it herself, salted meat, apples, a block of cheese in waxed paper, and two loaves of bread baked this morning. It should last him a number of days, at least until he and his party arrived at a castle. The Crownlands were thick with villages and castles and holdfasts, no inn or barn more than a days' ride from another. It wouldn't be like the North, their villages often days and weeks away from another, where traveling men often carried every bit of food they planned to eat.

She felt a tinge of worry; not that Rhaegar would starve, but where there was law and forests, there would be outlaws and highwaymen. Once through the kingswood, it wouldn't be much of a problem, but it was still a long way to Starfall. Rhaegar had showed her where it was on a map, a tiny point at the far edge of Dorne. Another world away.

"You have your tinderbox, don't you? And candles? And your good knife?"

Rhaegar chuckled and finished tying down the packs on the back of the gray palfrey, an expensive horse bought just days before in preparation for the journey. "I have it all, love. All packed away."

Jenny arched an eyebrow and slipped his good knife, the one with the bone handle, from behind her back and wagged it at him, point first. "If you go and get yourself hurt, I'll be sure to come and finish the job."

Rhaegar laughed and took the knife from her, slipping it into his belt and picking her up in his arms. She kissed his forehead, wrapping her hands around the back of his neck and holding him tight. She looked into his dark indigo eyes and kissed him softly on the mouth. "Don't you die on me, Rhaegar. Or come back with some Dornish wench."

Rhaegar laughed again, a deep, throaty sound that made her smile. "As if I would know what to do with another woman. You're plenty for me all by yourself."

Jenny narrowed her eyes and smiled. "Just you remember that," she said, looking over the walls at the rapidly rising sun. "You'll need to go now. Ser Arthur and the other one are waiting for you."

The Prince of Dragonstone – it still made her shudder to think of it – gave her a look. "Be nice to Jon. He's one of the few friends I have."

"He's an ass," she said flatly. "And not half as clever as he thinks he is," she added.

Rhaegar's smile died a little, growing serious. "You'll need to get out of the city soon. I don't know when everything will go down, but I want you far enough away."

Jenny nodded. "I'll leave in a day or two. Just enough time to make sure Izembaro and Arry have everything in order without us here." There was a servant of House Thorne, an old friend, that would take her in for a few months, especially with the coin she had. She wanted to go with Rhaegar and see Dorne, one place her own travels had never taken her, but arriving at Sunspear with a low-born mistress might be seen as an insult, Dornish customs notwithstanding. And nearly three months with Jon fucking Connington staring at her prince like a lost pup was not her idea of a good time.

Rhaegar kissed her again, deeply, his arms wrapped around her. He broke the kiss and looked at her, smiling. "I'll be back in two months, three at the most. Then, maybe a year and we'll be gone."

Jenny nodded, smiling, trying to keep her eyes from watering. "Go," she said gently. "They're waiting for you."

Rhaegar nodded and swung up into his saddle, bringing the palfrey around toward the River Gate. "I love you."

"And I love you."

Rhaegar XXXI
11: 275 AC
Summerhall

We topped the ridge at a fast trot, reining in the horses amid their impatient snorts. We had only been in the saddle for less than a half a day and our mounts were just getting warm, ready to run. I felt much the same, the journey a careless freedom I had not felt since arriving in Westeros – or much before for that matter. A week and a half in the saddle wasn't enough to dampen my spirits, though I missed Jenny deeply. For more than a year, we had never been away from each other long, never more than a day or night. I hoped she was safe, far away from the city in the home of old friends. Once the king died, anything could happen, especially with those lords that chafed under the Handship of Lord Tywin.

As much as I missed her, it still felt good to finally be away from the city and the plots at court. There were no plots here, just a serene peacefulness, a beauty of nature that only exists where men are not. It had been two days since we had seen another living soul, and that only a pair of farmers bound for the local market. Here was nature in her purest form, marred only occasionally by the forgotten ruins of man. Such as the form before us.

The massive skeleton of Summerhall lay up ahead, a blackened, twisted mass of wood and stone long forgotten. The forest around the building was slowly reclaiming the land, with young trees half the height of the older ones breaking up the otherwise cleared earth. The grass was tall and thick, but pieces of a broken stone path were still visible beneath the growth.

Men had once walked here, lived here, laughed and cried and yelled and loved here. And all that was gone now, and in another twenty, or fifty, or a hundred years, it would all be gone. Unless some damn fool decided to rebuild in the face of such futility.

"I was born here," I finally said. "Amidst fire and smoke, and the dying of my family."

Neither Jon nor Arthur spoke, holding tight to the reins of their mounts, giving me a moment. I wasn't sure how I – as Rhaegar – was supposed to react to this; though, I'm not sure Rhaegar would have known either.

"Let's go explore," I said, leading my horse down the ridge toward the ruined castle.

Both seemed surprised, though they followed a moment later. "Rhaegar," Arthur said, leading his horse beside mine, "there are any number of reasons not to get too close. Fired buildings can often collapse at a touch of wind."

"Arthur, we're in the Stormlands. This place gets battered every season," I said. "If what's left is still standing nearly twenty years later, then it should humor our presence a moment longer."

"And if outlaws are using it as a base?"

I leaned over in a conspiratorial whisper. "Then we know the building won't fall on our heads, don't we?"

Jon laughed carelessly, leaning roguishly in his saddle. "We'll be fine, Arthur. Come on!" he yelled, spurring his horse into a gallop.

Arthur and I shook our heads and followed at a quick trot, the land gently sloping down into a level plane of thigh-high grass and trees no more than fifteen years old.

The ruined summer home was even more massive up close. The base was at least three hundred paces across and one remaining wall showed that it was at least three stories high. Ruined, cracked steps led into what might have been a garden or a stone path, leading up to the main entrance. Two circular structures remained on either side of us, their stone stacked only waist high, the remnants of some guard tower or gate. This place was once a light castle, a mark of the faith placed in the Dornish marriage treaties, becoming a summer residence for the royal family; becoming a tomb.

The smell of the blackened walls was ever more powerful here, at this distance. Nearly seventeen years of rain and storm and wind and life could not wash away the smell of death, though it tried. Vines scrambled up the standing walls and various grasses and flowers broke through the cracked stone floors. Once we stepped through what could have once been the main door, we saw the broken lines of walls and hallways, crumbled arches of doorways, discolored stone of tapestries or carpets or paintings emblazoned forever in the great fire.

"What was this hall?" Arthur said, shaking me out of my reverie.

I looked over to find him crawling up a pile of broken stone that could have once, conceivably, been a wall. I joined him at the top, the loose rabble slipping beneath my feet. The hall in question was nearly two hundred feet long, judging from what remained of the structure. The walls were colored with splotches of red and blue and orange and yellow, all twisted together in a nightmare of burnt color.

"The Battle Gallery," Jon said from below the rabble pile.

I looked at him, questioning.

He sighed a bit and pulled himself up to join us, placing his feet carefully. "The Battle Gallery was where Daeron II cataloged the great deeds and battles of House Targaryen. Everything from Aegon's Conquest to the First Blackfyre Rebellion." He climbed down, into the hall, pointing at the colors that remained. "They were tapestries, stretching from one end of the hall to the other, all one long march of Targaryen history."

I looked back to the walls, hoping to find some clear picture of what once was, but it was all too far gone. Nothing but the shadow of colors and dyes burnt into the stone remained.

I wondered then if I could leave for Essos as I wanted to. These men and women, my ancestors, this body's ancestors, had built a dynasty on the backs of dragons and everything they had to show for it was slowly disappearing, whether by past fire or future rebellion. Whether they left the world better or worse was for the maesters to decide, but at least they had tried. Aegon the Conqueror had taken seven kingdoms and turned them into a single crown, halting the regional wars and skirmishes. Jaehaerys the Wise had ruled for fifty-five years, bringing great growth and fortune to the continent. Baelor the Blessed, Daeron the Good, Aegon the Unlikely, they had all done good things with what they had been given. Was it enough to make up for Aegon the Unworthy or Maegor the Cruel or Aegon the Usurper? Maybe. I didn't know.

But at least they had tried.

"We camp here for the night," I said after a moment. "I want to do some more looking around and it wouldn't hurt us to have a half day of rest." I took another look around at the hall, the Battle Gallery as Jon had called it. "Not inside, though. Too many Targaryens have died here already."

Jon VII
11; 275 AC
Ashford

Jon wiped his brow and slid from his saddle, his knees nearly buckling beneath his weight. He had never spent so many days in the saddle, twenty-two of the last twenty-four. Rhaegar had not wanted to announce his presence to the various lords whose lands they had travelled through, lest they be forced into feasting and several days of "rest" at their castles. Though, a castle would be beds and warm food instead of the ground and the camp fare they had in their packs. Towns and villages, on the other hand, were a different matter, most having an inn or at least a roof they could sleep beneath, with something to eat in the pot at the end of the day.

The village looked like any other village on this side of the Reach, one-room stone houses with thick, thatched roofs and a long, winding dirt road between them. This was herding country, the people and economy dependent upon their four-legged charges. Further south was Ashford proper, the castle and town of Ashford on the north bank of the Cockleswent. The dirt road through the village would eventually turn into a wider, more tightly packed road that led to Ashford and the market there.

There was a large gathering on the village green, a crowd formed around torches and some kind of wagon. A tinker or trader perhaps, plying his wares through the countryside to avoid paying guild prices for a proper shop in a city. It looked to be the entire village, more than four hundred people crowded around on makeshift seats or standing off to the side. Laughter erupted from the crowd as children ran between the knees of their parents and aunts and uncles, while ale was served from a number of barrels. As Jon neared the wagon, he could make out the writing on the side.

"The Prince's Men," he said, reading the words aloud.

Rhaegar broke into a smile. "It's one of the traveling companies! It has to be the one I send to Highgarden, Bowin's company. They must be on their way back."

Jon suppressed a smile. Rhaegar had been moody and quiet since leaving Summerhall a week before. No rhyme or reason why, just a silent prince alone with his thoughts. This was the first time Rhaegar had smiled in a week.

A hush fell over the crowd as a large man walked out onto the stage, dressed in a ridiculous purple vest and a shirt with more lace than a dozen highborn ladies. He tapped his staff against the stage three times, as if making an announcement.

"Two Houses, both alike in fair dignity/In the Riverlands, where we lay our scene/From ancient grudge break to new mutiny/Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean/From forth the fatal loins of these two foes/A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life/Whole misadventured piteous overthrows/Do with their death bury their parent's strife."

He had a strange way of talking, his pauses between certain words seemingly out of place. Jon looked to Rhaegar, worried his friend's good mood would be ruined if the man was doing something wrong.

But Rhaegar was only nodding in satisfaction. "Bowin has finally listened," he said. "It took him a while, but he's finally learned the meter."

Jon frowned in confusion, but shook his head. It was no matter, really, as long as the man was doing what he was supposed to do. "Let's find the local inn. Or whatever this village has. I'm hungry."

"The stage apparatus is working better than I'd hoped. All it is, really, is four extra-long and extra-wide wagons with sides that collapse and lock together. Just a flat surface and an audience, and you could have a play anywhere in the world."

"Rhaegar, did you hear me?"

Rhaegar shook his head, never taking his eyes off the stage. "No, let's stay and watch."

Jon sighed. "Rhaegar, you've seen the play a hundred times. You know how it ends. Besides, I'm hungry and tired."

Rhaegar made no notion that he had heard, watching the stage and the audience like a hawk.

Arthur nudged Jon with an elbow. "It's likely that the innkeeper is here with everyone else. Let's just stay and wait for the end."

Jon opened his mouth to argue, then closed it when he saw Rhaegar's full transformation. He was grinning from ear to ear, his eyes lighting up every time the audience laughed or cheered. Whatever mood had settled on him at Summerhall seemed to lift with each passing second, their smiles bringing his spirits up. Rhaegar moved forward into the crowd to get a better look, brushing past a number of spectators. He was markedly different from the other audience members, his rich red cloak a finer cut and cloth than their rough homespun, his silver hair gleaming in the fading light contrasting with their blacks and browns.

Some of the spectators began to look and point when they noticed the silver hair; silver hair that could only belong to one family.

The boy playing the lead role was in the middle of one of his lines when the words suddenly stopped. He had noticed what the audience members were pointing at and when he realized who the man was, he stopped short and fell to one knee. The other mummers stopped too, confused, then followed suit when they saw Rhaegar, their prince and patron.

Once the mummers on the stage stopped, the village people dropped to one knee as well, murmurs of "Your Grace" filling the air.

Rhaegar frowned and looked over the kneeling crowd and raised his voice. "Please, all of you. Stand, please," he said, his voice cracking only a bit.

Jon felt his heart break a little when he heard his friend's voice. Rhaegar wanted to be treated as any other man; one of the main reasons he never allowed Arthur or Jon to use anything other than his name, even in the presence of other lords. To be able to forget, even for just a moment, that he was Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne. Rhaegar thought no one knew, but Jon did. The prince didn't want the Iron Throne, just a life spent writing and watching plays, drinking wine with his close friends, his nights spent with his paramour, children that would grow and marry for love.

But Rhaegar was destined for so much more.

The herald from the beginning of the play, Bowin, nervously came forward, ridiculous feathered hat in his hands. "Your Grace, we had no knowledge that you would be here, else we would have prepared something."

Rhaegar turned his head away from the stage, his face locked in a sad, pained expression.

Jon cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled toward the stage. "Continue with the damned play!" Arthur followed a moment later, echoing him. Soon, the audience members had taken up the cry, shouting at the mummers onstage.

Rhaegar looked at Jon and smiled, silently thanking him. Jon nodded back.

The mummers leapt into action, pulling themselves together and getting back into their places, smiling all the while.

"Shall we get you a chair, Your Grace?" one of the men called from

"Not a chance," Rhaegar shot back, settling himself down on a hay bale beside one of the other young men. "I have the best seat in the house."

Jon smiled again. Rhaegar deserved to be happy now; for in time, there would be no place for happiness.

Arthur IV
12; 275 AC
Blackmont

The sun was slowly setting behind the Red Mountains, making the colored sand and stone appear more blood-red than orange. It was still feverishly hot, the ground holding more of the sun's heat than the green and grass they had left behind. Scorpions and lizards and other animals that could go days without water were the only denizens of this place, outside of a city's walls. Scrub brush and twisted trees were the only green that could survive in the desert, even this close to the Torrentine's banks. There were vultures circling overhead, meaning there was a carcass nearby. Some foolish animal wandering into a place they didn't belong.

They had made camp in the shadow of a rocky outcropping, putting their backs to a firm surface. Rhaegar had built the fire while Jon readied the meal for the night. Arthur rested, as they had traded off jobs every night they camped. They moved with the bustling efficiency learned over many nights outdoors; forty, since they had left King's Landing. They were three days of hard riding out from Starfall, his home and his family. It had been nearly four years since he had seen them last; Ashara would be ten and four by now, Allyria six. Anton, his older brother, would have grown into his role as Lord of Starfall. Things would have changed dramatically, his own absence from the castle quickly plastered over, replacing him. Like he was never there.

Arthur understood. There were roles at any castle and in any family that needed to be filled; if one family member was no longer there, those roles still needed doing. When Aeron Dayne had died, Anton had taken over the very same day at the age of fifteen. It was simply a matter of life.

Things were quiet, their conversations talked out over the course of so many days on the road. They had all seen the same things that day, eaten the same things, drank from the same river. They simply didn't have much to discuss.

"How far is High Hermitage from here?" Rhaegar asked, more to fill the space than any real curiosity.

Arthur looked around, hearing the flow of the Torrentine from their camp. "We're in Blackmont territory now. High Hermitage is less than a day away. We could stop in if we have to; there's a newborn Dayne that I've never met, a boy with silver hair."

"A product of some wandering Targaryen, no doubt," Jon japed.

Arthur inclined his head, shrugging off the remark. Rhaegar, on the other hand, stiffened, his face going stormy for a split second.

"Castle Blackmont would be another good place to stop over for a night," Arthur said before Rhaegar's mood could darken. "The desert can be dangerous at night."

Rhaegar shook his head. "No castles if we can help it. I don't think I could stand the feasting or pomp. Father knows we'll get enough of that at Starfall and Sunspear."

Another silence fell upon them as they ate. Jon ate his food hungrily, taking big mouthfuls of salted pork, while Rhaegar chewed slowly and methodically, his focus on the encroaching darkness.

"Anton plans to give me Dawn and name me Sword of the Morning."

Rhaegar and Jon turned to Arthur, both chewing slowly and staring at him. Rhaegar stopped, his brow furrowed. "How long have you known this?"

Arthur shrugged. "I received a raven shortly after being named to the Kingsguard. He was very nice about it."

Jon's face grew ever more incredulous. "And you didn't think to tell us?"

"We were all busy with Velaryon and the rest. Keeping Rhaegar from getting himself killed," Arthur said, tearing his bread with his fingers.

Rhaegar glared at Arthur and opened his mouth to say something, but Jon overruled him. "Are you aware of how important this is?"

"It is a great honor," Arthur agreed.

"It's more than that," Jon sputtered. "It's fucking Dawn. Every boy in Westeros grows up hearing about the greatsword forged from a fallen star and the men who wielded it."

Rhaegar looked at him strangely. "Do you not want to carry Dawn?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "Anton and I would fight over who would carry Dawn when we were children. He was three years older than me, bigger and stronger, but I always won. I always wanted it. And now that it's here… It is more responsibility than I imagined. The Sword of the Morning has always been a warrior without peer, across all the Seven Kingdoms."

Jon's mouth gaped open. "Arthur, you're the youngest member in the two-hundred-and-fifty-year history of the Kingsguard. You stand side-by-side with the White Bull, and Barristan the Bold, and Lewyn Martell, guarding the king and his family."

Arthur held up a hand. "I know, and I do not doubt my own abilities. And I have no intention of refusing my brother. All of the bannermen sworn to Starfall are waiting for us to arrive. There will be a feast I'm sure, with a dance afterwards. The actual ceremony will be private in my family's sept. I would like the both of you there."

Rhaegar nodded quickly, still looking at Arthur, as if trying to discern some hidden feeling, while Jon appeared excited at the prospect.

"We do what is required of us," Rhaegar finally said.